


trying to do the unmaginable

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: Alan Jago survived with nothing but a bullet in the arm, but at least they have him now. All that's left it to charge the bastard. Jim Strange thought he was strong enough to do it. Apparently not.(Degüello re-imagining, Strange does not handle everything coming to an end very well. Morse is bad at helping.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	trying to do the unmaginable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iloveyoudie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/gifts).

> iloveyoudie: give me the interrogation scene where thursday and morse have to hold jim back  
me: yeah sure i got u babe
> 
> i just... mmm... i dont write jim often enough? i wanted to see what would happen if Jago survived hhhh this hurt me to write bc i love my boy george but also i had great fun so like thank u for inspiring this friend!

The corridor down to interrogation has never seemed so long. Strange finds himself reluctant to start the journey, because then all of this comes to a head. Everything he’s done, since the night George Fancy died - was killed - it lead to this. It’s taken a lot, not least of all George; the end of an era, the loss of Thursday, the brunt of Box’s fists, DeBryn’s kidnap, Morse’s slow and painful distance. It’s taken every part of what had seemed right and normal and twisted it into this. And Strange had the sinking feeling that these wouldn’t even change anything. Like Christmas the year you realise you’re too old for Santa, when the excitement doesn’t hit like it used to, and it’s just another day. Knowing what happened won’t magically make everything good again. But he has to. For George. 

Thursday meets him halfway there, falls into silent step with him. Jago is in there. Box is laid up at Cowley General, a ventilator breathing for him, the rest of the sorry lot already charged with their crimes, but Jago has one more, he has the most blood on his hands than any of them. 

He has to stop outside the door, school his face into something more calm, because if he looks anything like Thursday, he’s got eyes hard as steel. There’s nothing to be gained from anger, not if he wants Jago to serve justice properly. They do this by the books, keep standing the pillars of what Jago has been undermining. They nick him, good and proper, and he’ll rot in a cell. If someone else finds him once he’s in there, well that’s no problem of Strange’s. 

Thursday is the one to push open the door, and Strange follows. His eyes fall to Jago, all cocky and sneering even now, even here, in this room, one arm in a sling where the bullet grazed him. No cuffs, but there’s men standing just outside, and Jago hasn’t the balls to run. It doesn’t stop him smiling up at Strange, who can feel his resolve slipping by the second. He doesn’t even realise he’s balled his hands into fists. Thursday rattles off procedural drivel, his voice as dark and thunderous as the night, and he does not sit. Nor does Strange, they both stand above him neither willing to stoop to his level. If there’s one thing to come out of this, it is perhaps, that it finally feels like Thursday is coming home to them. 

“-and extortion,” Thursday is saying, reeling off his crimes and doing a darn sight better than Strange would at keeping his voice steady. Then he pauses, glances at Strange, then back to Jago. 

“And the murder of Eddie Nero, Cromwell Ames and-” Jago laughs then, the bloody prick has the audacity to laugh when Thursday’s voice catches, when his jaw tightens. 

“George Fancy?” The first words Jago has spoken in days, and it’s  _ that _ . 

Strange doesn’t even think it all just suddenly happens. He throws himself at Jago, kicks the table and watches it thud across the floor. He tears Jago from the chair, hangs him by his shirt and rams a fist into his gut. 

“You don’t say his name,” he cries out, landing another hit, then another. “You don’t get to say his name!” 

Somewhere behind him Thursday is crying out, someone else is calling him. He doesn’t hear them, just pure white noise, the sound of his heart in his ears and fists on Jago. He grabs his jaw and slams his head against the wall, the wet thud not nearly satisfying enough. Jago’s head rolls on his shoulders but his eyes are still open, and he splits a blood from a smile. 

“He was twenty fucking three, he was a  _ boy- _ ” he was screaming now, bellowing red faced and spittle flying. “One of our own, you slimy pathetic bastard!” 

A hand catches on his arm as he pulls back again, and it’s then, only then he hears Morse. 

“Jim! Stop, let him go. Let him go,” he’s not sure if he means Jago, or George, but either way it stops him. Suddenly the world snaps back into place, and there’s loud shouting outside, and Thursday has his hand on his shoulder, Morse has him by the wrist. 

Jago slips from his fingers, a bloody mess on the floor. Some constable runs in to hurry him off to the cells, whilst Strange just trembles. The adrenaline finally leaves him, the fire that’s been burning since George died and it leaves him hollow. He sways, and it’s only Morse’s shoulder under his arm that keeps him upright. 

Thursday lets go of him, gives him a look of kindness, tinged with pity. 

“You’re alright,” Morse is saying, as he steers him out into the hall again. He repeats it like a prayer.  _ You’re alright, Jim. You’re alright. It’s alright. _

It isn’t, but for once he doesn’t know how it could be. There’s no easy fix to this, nothing that will make it all better. 

He doesn’t remember making it to the car, or the drive back really. It’s just a foggy blur, only broken by the stinging in his knuckles. He manages to get his key in the door though, stagger through into the kitchen. Morse is behind him, he swings the door shut behind them then stands there, half reaching to take off his coat. 

An unhelpful voice in Strange’s head pipes up that this is the first time Morse has been to his house since they moved out. He had invited him, drinks the night he moved in, but Morse in his usual way waved his hand and proclaimed he had plans. Strange sat in between unpacked boxes and ate curry off his lap. That sort of thing had happened a lot. Strange had asked, Morse had sort-of-refused. The odd times he had tried to drop in on Morse, driving out to see him, he’d never felt like it was a proper visit. Never relaxed into the chair, never felt totally at ease. Things hadn’t felt right with Morse in a long time, now he thought about it. 

Even trying to pull him in, to keep him in the circle was a struggle. Morse wandered, that was his nature. He couldn’t stay put, and sometimes that was admirable. But what Strange had wanted, no what he had needed these past months, had just been a moment of stillness. Was that selfish? George Fancy was still dead, and here he was bemoaning the fact Morse hadn’t come round for tea recently. 

No, but that  _ was  _ the point, wasn’t it? George had died and Morse hadn’t been there. So they hadn’t been friends per se, but they had got along, in the end. There had been pub nights and trips to the pictures, the lot of them. Shirley on George’s arm, the doctor quite often joining them. It had been  _ them _ . Shirley he could understand her leaving, she had lost so much more than any of them. DeBryn had not known George so well, but even he had risked himself to find the truth. Had played secretkeeper, had risked his life for the boys memory. What had Morse done? 

Tucked himself away, moped alone as if nobody else was hurting. Ignored them all, let Thursday stray, let it all tumble so wildly out of control without for a second thinking of any of them. Till here he was stood in this unfamiliar house, still with it’s dining table heaving under files, it’s board littered with evidence, with pictures of George. Strange had looked at that picture every day. George had been his friend. Strange had tried his best to piece together what remained of their broken little family, had pulled strings and pushed buttons, worked late and started early trying to sew the torn edges back together. 

He had checked in with Bright and DeBryn, had called Shirley on the weekends. He had sent flowers to George’s parents, letters to his sister. He had checked in on Morse, broken his lock that night he couldn’t hear over the wailing opera and found him half-blind and screaming over a bottle. He had stayed on the sofa, pushed aspin and water into him, propped him up on the edge of the bath and shaved off the scrag-ended beard bourne of two weeks despairing. He had done all of that and more. When had Morse even bothered to do the same for him?

Morse seemed to realise he hadn’t been invited in. He left his coat on. He moved towards the sink and filled the kettle. 

“Tea?” 

Strange couldn’t find it in him to respond. His mind raced from one extreme to the other, one moment empty sadness, the next pure untamable rage, the next and urge to just hide away from it all forever. Guilt and shame, anger and sorrow, it clawed at him, shook him so deep his bones ached. 

Morse made the tea anyway. At least he got it right - two minutes brewing, then the  _ clink  _ of two sugars, splash of milk. A petty voice asked if that was a friends memory or a detective's at play. 

“Look Jim, I…” he started, at his side now. Strange watched him stare at the table and the sheets spread out across them. His fingers hovered over at them, itching no doubt, to pick at the puzzle before them. But there was nothing left to pick at, the vultures had been and gone. The game was up, and now they were just picking up the pieces. 

Morse’s hand landed on a picture, not one that had been all that important to the case really, but Strange had taken to looking onto it often. He wasn’t in it himself, he had been behind the camera, but George sat, squashed in between a laughing Shirley, and Morse with his head buried in his hands. Just out of frame, DeBryn’s hand was pointing towards Morse. Some pub quiz where Morse’s genius mind blanked on him, much to the glee of everyone else at the table. Not a very special memory, but a sweet one. 

Morse smiled softly as he plucked the photo from the pile. 

“I remember this,” he spun the picture around to show him. “Did you have the rest?” There had been a lot of pictures that night, Strange’s first play with his newest toy. Of course he had the rest developed, but his throat is too tight to say so.  _ It’s been a year since then _ , he wants to say.  _ Why didn’t you ask sooner _ , he wants to shout.  _ Where have you been _ , he wants to cry. 

Quite suddenly he realises he wants to throttle Morse. 

Oblivious fool that he is, Morse doesn’t sense the shift in the room. Strange stands though, reaches for the picture and snatches it from his hand. 

“What are you doing Morse?” he asks quietly. If he doesn’t mind his tongue he'll shout. Morse stares up with his eyes all big, hand waving uselessly. 

“I’m just.. Trying to help.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances at the floor in typical fashion. “I know I’ve not been the most… I’ve been difficult. It’s been difficult.” 

“You don’t know the first thing about difficult.” 

Morse flinches, his cheeks turning red. 

“Now that’s not fair-” 

“It’s not fair that George is dead, Morse, but that’s the way life goes, I'm afraid.” 

“Why are you being so difficult?”

Strange has to laugh at that. 

“Pot, kettle, matey,” he presses a hand to his eyes. “Look I think you should go.” 

“Strange, Jim-” 

“Go Morse. Please.” 

“Jim, I just want to-” 

“Yeah, you just  _ want _ . I want you to leave. Please,” he really wishes he were less polite sometimes. 

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“You’re being a prick.” 

“Strange!”

“Get out, Morse. Don’t make me ask again.” 

Morse at least takes a few steps towards the door. 

“I don’t understand,” he says. Strange balls his hands, and the next few words come out tight. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think you would. You wouldn’t understand Morse, you couldn’t. You deal with your shit your own way, I’ll deal with it mine, but you’ve made it pretty clear you don’t care what I do, so just go, please.” 

Morse stiffens. His face sinks back into that sour look he gets, surliness creeping over his shoulders. 

“You don’t make it easy to help.” 

“You haven’t tried!” he snaps. “You haven’t tried at all Morse, God, I’m not asking much, I was never asking much! But no matter what I did, no matter  _ what,  _ you just didn’t care! About anything other than your own fucking misery. I’ve got news for you matey, other people were hurting too! Other people have  _ shit  _ going on in their lives. Other people were hurting too! So leave off, alright?” 

His hands have come up again, residual anger still boiling his blood. Morse looks venomous, like he’s going to start lecturing him in that voice he does, and Strange snaps. He won’t have it. He grabs Morse by the shirt and hauls him towards the door. 

“Let go- Jim!” 

“Piss off Morse.” 

In the time it takes to get the door open, Morse has planted his feet firmly inside. 

“Morse,” he says, a warning tone. He isn’t above throwing him out if he has to. 

“I just want to be alone. Something you’d understand, surely?” he stalks off towards the kitchen, leaving the front door swinging. He rattles around till he can find a bottle, not even bothering with a glass. Bourbon, that’ll do. It burns, but it’s good, it gives his anger something to latch on to. He can focus on the feeling, of the tang against his teeth and the promise of forgetting.

The door slams and he thinks good, he thinks he’s alone, he thinks he can finally fall apart in peace. Every breath he’s held this past year, every secret he kept hidden, ever lump in his throat swallowed, it all comes back. It crashes into him and drags him under, till his chest is heaving and his face is wet. He’s standing over the sink, arms barely holding him up, staring down but seeing nothing. His head wants to burst, it hurts so much. He can’t see now, can barely breathe anymore. 

He’s not okay, it’s not okay, none of this is okay and he  _ can’t _ fix it.

The bottle in his hand meets the wall with a bang, chipping the tile as it explodes into a thousand pieces. The sound is something, it’s loud and horrible and a little like what is happening in his head. So he grabs whatever’s closest, a plate in the rack, and he throws that too. It shatters and he goes to grab another when there’s a body before him, hands on his once again. 

“Jim, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself-”  _ shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup _

His fist finds an edge, jaw maybe or cheekbone. Either way the figure leaves, the door slams again, and Strange staggers to his bed.

Come morning, he’ll feel regret, no doubt. Call Morse and apologise, blame it on the stress and the lack of sleep, and hope he hasn’t ruined everything between them. It hasn’t been easy on any of them. It was Morse who had found George, who had tried to bring him back then sunk to his knees beside him. 

They had all been hit, all of them. But Strange deserved one night to himself, to be selfish and sad and to let himself cry for the first time since all of this began. He was allowed to feel lost and lonely and awful for a few hours before he got up and got sorted and moved on. 

He will wake in the morning to a messy house still, but a glass left out on the table, aspirin beside it. A note, scrawled on the back of scrap of paper, simply says  _ Lunch?  _ but he’ll recognise the hand. It won’t fix everything, nothing will. But perhaps it’s a start. 

**Author's Note:**

> morse sucks but like. i mean he's trying. sort of. jim needs new friends.


End file.
